


games with my heart (give it a try)

by johnnlaurenss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Feuilly Appreciation, Fluff, Game Night, M/M, bc lets be real did i even write a fic if we dont appreciate feuilly, literally just assholes falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 01:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13693836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnlaurenss/pseuds/johnnlaurenss
Summary: Feuilly feels like he hasn’t been making a ton of smart decisions recently.His most current one though, is sprinting into the local grocery store frantically looking for something organic and vegetarian that is deemed appropriate for an awkward reunion game night nightmare.***In which Feuilly is very late, house parties are rarely fun unless it's this one, and he meets someone who makes it worthwhile.





	games with my heart (give it a try)

**Author's Note:**

> this is NOT inspired by true events, though the basis of it did come from the awkward reunion game night i was forced to attend a few nights ago.
> 
> (title from a backstreet boys song. because...why not)

**** He’s late.

 

_Goddamnit!_ He knew he would be, too. His shift ran late, because his shifts always run late, and Feuilly would be a lot more pissed at his boss if he wasn’t so furious at himself for agreeing to go to this stupid thing in the first place. He’s late and he has to go to the store to get snacks because he didn’t _make_ snacks because that would have been a smart decision.

 

Feuilly feels like he hasn’t been making a ton of smart decisions recently.

 

His most current one though, is sprinting into the local grocery store frantically looking for something organic and vegetarian that is deemed appropriate for an awkward reunion game night nightmare.

 

He hasn’t seen Enjolras in at least a year.

 

It would be less weird, if they didn’t talk as frequently as they do. But if Feuilly is being a hundred percent honest, it’s still fucking weird because now Enjolras is engaged and he invited Feuilly over to his apartment with the guy he’s gonna _marry_ and Feuilly swears to literal Jesus that they only graduated yesterday.

 

He agreed to attend their party weeks ago. Then he’d forgotten about it entirely.

 

He finds some cookies that look promising, and there’s literally one bag left on the shelf. Feuilly is not above fighting for it at this point, so he kind of does throw an elbow a bit in an attempt to snag the cookies before the other guy in the aisle can get his hands on them.

 

“Thank god,” Feuilly breathes, already making a beeline for the checkout.

 

“Christ, at least offer to split them with me,” the guy retorts. He sounds amused and flirty and Feuilly doesn’t want to deal with it. “Take me back to yours and we don’t even have to worry about the cost.”

 

“It’s for a party, asshole, not for me to consume on my own fucking time,” snaps Feuilly. The guy laughs, startled probably by Feuilly’s bluntness and crude language, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He doesn’t have time to be hit on, he’s _late_. The guy makes a noise at the back of his throat like he’s got more to say, but Feuilly literally doesn’t have the time. He messily waves to the guy before darting out of the aisle and practically sprinting towards the front of the store to check out.

 

 

 

 

He takes the metro, which goes excruciatingly slow probably just to spite him. The party started at seven and it’s nearing eight now, and with every passing minute Feuilly grows more and more anxious. This isn’t a good impression to leave on your best friend from grade school.

 

_God_. Enjolras has a fiancé and a nice apartment and probably a stable job lined up and friends that he takes out to brunch on the weekends where they take wine tours and shit. Feuilly has a billion jobs, no love life whatsoever, and a half-formed plan to his name.

 

No—he’s not going to do that. Feuilly promised himself a long time ago that self-deprecation was never going to get to him and he won’t go back on that promise now. He’s worked hard to get to where he is. His jobs are paying for school, he’s going to get a degree so he can help kids that used to be just like him. He hasn’t got time for a love life, hasn’t got the energy to banter back with cute and flirty guys in the middle of supermarkets. He’s got a half-formed plan, sure, but it’s all he’s got and he’s going to see it through.

 

The metro reaches its stop, but even as Feuilly clambers off hastily he freezes the second he’s outside the door to the building. He might be on the verge of a panic attack which seems stupid—he’s literally known Enjolras for years, known that Enjolras is not the kind of person to judge or exclude or do anything to ostracize Feuilly. But—it still stings, a bit, to know that their lives moved in such different directions so fast.

 

“Stop being a fucking baby,” he mutters to himself. In his hand, he grips the bag of cookies tighter and laughs to himself. It’s just a party. He’ll let himself have fun, for once.

 

Enjolras’s apartment is... really nice. Feuilly swallows when Enjolras opens the door, but a grin splits his face and he wraps Feuilly up in a hug before he can even properly say hello. It’s startling how reassuring a hug can be—but he returns the sentiment easily, already feeling lighter. The apartment he shares with his fiancé is clean, decently sized, and filled with people. Feuilly takes in the decor for a while. A bookshelf filled with an eclectic selection, most likely their combined collection, with no coherent order; art hung on the walls that bear a resemblance to the canvases stashed behind the couches; a piano, to Feuilly’s surprise, and a coffee table Feuilly recognizes from their days at university. He smiles, slightly. It’s then that he realizes Enjolras is talking to him.

 

“This is Grantaire,” Enjolras says gently, fondly. He nudges the man forward. Grantaire turns to stick his tongue out playfully at Enjolras, earning a laugh for his efforts. Feuilly decides to like him. “Grantaire, this is Feuilly. You remember me telling you about him?”

 

Realization and familiarity spread across Grantaire’s features. He’s got messy dark curls, though they appear to be _almost_ tamed—like he’d tried, for a bit, just to give up in the end—and bright green eyes and a big, crooked nose and a smile to match. He offers his hand, covered in scars and paint, which Feuilly shakes after a moment. “Yeah, hey, nice to meet you,” Grantaire responds. “Enjolras talks about you all the time.”

 

Feuilly laughs delightedly; Enjolras splutters and blushes from head to toe. It makes Grantaire grin at the sight, an eye-crinkling face-splitting kind of grin that’s filled with adoration. So he leans in conspiringly and whispers to Feuilly, “Honestly, I’m still convinced he used to have a crush on you.”

 

“R!” Enjolras protests. Feuilly cracks up, and Grantaire releases his hand to instead reach for Enjolras and place a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Enjolras smiles happily, and says to Feuilly, “He’s not serious. He rarely is.”

 

“It’s okay, Enj, I knew about your crush for years,” Feuilly reassures, and he laughs with Grantaire when Enjolras starts to argue again.

 

“In all fairness, everyone has a crush on Feuilly,” Enjolras mutters after a bit. Feuilly grins. He has _missed_ this.

 

Enjolras gestures for Feuilly to further investigate his apartment, so Feuilly smiles one last time at his old best friend and his fiancé, and walks to the counter to put down the bag of cookies next to other assortments of snacks. There’s already a lot of other people here, which make sense since Feuilly is so late—and, thankfully, a few familiar faces.

 

“Combeferre,” Feuilly sighs in relief, practically making a beeline for his old friend. He takes a seat at the table next to his chair—Combeferre squeezes his hand happily. “You look—great, you look so good. How are you, how are things?”

 

It’s so easy to fall back into the familiar swing of things.

 

“Better, now,” replies Combeferre with a slight laugh. “You wouldn’t believe how boring these things can be when you only know one or two people.”

 

Feuilly raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? I thought you and Enjolras were still living together, before he moved in with Grantaire. Didn’t you meet all of their friends then?”

 

“I haven’t got the time.” Combeferre shrugs, dismissive. “I’ve met them all, sure, but haven’t had enough of a chance to make real connections with any of them. Grantaire and Enjolras both swear that the lot of us will all get on just fine—which I believe. Courfeyrac certainly has managed to become friends with… everyone.”

 

Feuilly follows the hard line of Combeferre’s gaze until he spots Courfeyrac siting atop the kitchen counter waving a wooden spoon around madly. He must be reenacting something, if the way the people around him burst into laughter is any indicator. “I see you’re still harboring unresolved feelings,” Feuilly murmurs. Combeferre stiffens, just a bit.

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says smoothly, and Feuilly grins.

 

“Sure, pal,” agrees Feuilly. He has to bite his lip to keep the laughter in when Combeferre shoots him a sharp glance. “Well hey, if you know everyone, clue me in. Give me the down-low on everyone so I know what to expect.”

 

Combeferre sighs, evidently relieved at the change of subject. “Of course. In the kitchen with Courf are Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet—they’re all from Grantaire’s side. Jehan is the tall lanky one in the horrible sweater, they made it themselves and they’re very proud of it. Joly is the short one, dark hair—Bossuet, the bald. Bossuet and Joly are dating, and they’re also dating Musichetta who isn’t here yet. Over on the couch are our girls; Cosette’s the one with pink hair, she and Enjolras have known each other for ages, and Éponine we met through Grantaire, she’s the one in the black dress. The gossip there, is that Cosette and Ép have had feelings for each other for a very long time. Musichetta is currently trying to gently push them in the right direction, but she’s late so obviously she isn’t doing a great job. Marius is the really tall one you see wandering idly between Enjolras and Courfeyrac—he’s Courf’s friend, and recently has joined the group after things with his family went south. Let’s see… we’re only missing two, Bahorel and Chetta. They’re usually late, though. Siblings, you know.”

 

Feuilly takes all the names and does his best to commit them to memory. On the couch, Cosette waves kindly to him when she notices his gaze on her, and he falters but waves back awkwardly. Éponine gives him a fierce look but grins when he pointedly looks away. He wonders if that means she’s decided to like him. The kitchen is filled with laughter once again, and Marius hesitates in the doorway from where he’d been taking his exit.

 

Courfeyrac turns, presumably to call back to his friend, but his gaze lands instead on Feuilly and he lets out a thrilled shout before practically tumbling off the counter. “Oh my god!” he cries. Feuilly has two seconds to think before Courfeyrac throws himself into Feuilly’s chair, wrapping his arms around Feuilly’s shoulders. “You’re here! They told me you might come but I said, guys, he works a thousand hours a week, will he even _have the time_ , but you made it! Oh, I could cry. Ferre! Look at how handsome he got!”

 

Combeferre rolls his eyes for Courfeyrac to see, but lingering in the edges of his expression is a fondness so easy to identify. Feuilly kind of hates them, if he’s being honest, because it’s cute as fuck. But he also loves them—and he’s missed them a _lot_.

 

“Hey, Fey,” Feuilly says. He returns the hug, laughing when Courfeyrac squeezes him tighter. “Jesus, you’re still a fucking heathen when it comes to giving hugs, you don’t _have_ to suffocate me.”

 

“I missed you!” is all Courfeyrac says in response. Feuilly lets out a breathless, startled laugh.

 

Maybe he jumped the gun when he assumed this party would be awkward.

 

“Everyone, meet Feuilly, the best person in the entire world,” Courfeyrac announces. Feuilly flushes scarlet as Courfeyrac shifts, so he’s half-resting on Feuilly and half-laying on Combeferre. Everyone turns to look at Courf, and in turn, Feuilly—Enjolras has a proud grin on his face. “Feuilly, this is everyone.”

 

“Ooh, is this Feuilly appreciation, because I’m the president of this fan club,” Enjolras interrupts. Giggles scatter through the room.

 

Feuilly whispers, “ _Oh my god_ ,”—mortified by his friends.

 

“Best person in the entire world?” pipes up an unfamiliar voice. Feuilly is pretty certain that it’s Joly, the tiny one walking with a cane. He grins toothily at Feuilly. “Sounds like a keeper. Why haven’t we met you before, best person in the entire world?”

 

“Oh my god,” Feuilly repeats. It seems like this truly isn’t going to end. “Um, I’ve been caught up with work and such—too busy to get out much. Enjolras and I have known each other since grade school.”

 

“Where do you work?” asks someone else. It comes so fast that Feuilly isn’t able to catch who asks it. He's dubious to answer, regardless. When he talks about his multiple jobs, he usually gets the same responses; disinterest, or pity. He doesn’t want either particularly.

 

He’s saved by a loud thud outside the door, followed by loud swearing and a feminine voice scolding above it all. Feuilly looks at the door panicked, but he seems to be the only person having this reaction. Everyone else ignores it, or else looks at the door in bored anticipation. The door swings open, and in tumble two very tall people. At the front is a woman—Musichetta, Feuilly assumes—with her hair piled messily atop her head. She loudly declares, “We’re late, we know, this idiot couldn’t figure out his life!” before darting quickly towards Joly and Bossuet and kissing them both soundly.

 

Feuilly’s still kind of overwhelmed by the entire thing when he turns to look at the other new person—

 

—and finds himself staring directly at the guy from the supermarket earlier.

 

Feuilly blanches.

 

Grantaire is already clambering towards him, clapping him on the shoulder and hugging him tightly before throwing a playful punch at the guy’s face. He’s huge, Feuilly didn’t have a chance to properly realize it at the supermarket, but he’s annoyingly tall and broad and he’s probably got miles of dark, lovely skin begging to be explored and long hair demanding to be pulled—

 

Wow. _Jesus Christ_. Feuilly’s train of thought has _rapidly_ derailed, into dangerous territory considering he’s already had his first interaction with this guy and it was to practically steal from him. God, how did Feuilly not realize how hot he was before? He probably would have stayed to flirt. _Fuck_ , he’s got to stop thinking that, he literally should be panicking.

 

Courfeyrac must feel him tense up; he glances back at Feuilly then furrows his brow in concern.

 

“Oh my god,” says the dude. _Bahorel_ , Feuilly’s brain supplies helpfully, because he has an excellent memory. He’s kind of angry about it, right now though. “Dude, hey!”

 

Grantaire turns and squints at Feuilly. “You two know each other?”

 

“No,” Feuilly says, at the same time that Bahorel goes, “Yes!”

 

Feuilly can practically feel everyone’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

 

“I guess,” allows Feuilly, timid.

 

“We barely met like an hour ago,” Bahorel supplies. He’s got a mischievous grin on his face and Feuilly kind of hates how attractive it is. “I don’t believe I caught your name?”

 

“I didn’t give it,” Feuilly retorts back.

 

“Bahorel, this is Feuilly,” Courfeyrac chimes in. Bahorel winks conspiringly at him; Feuilly contemplates how hard it would be to get away with murder. “I was actually wanting to introduce the two of you.”

 

Bahorel has the _nerve_ to look intrigued. Mostly, Feuilly is just mortified that this is his life. He takes back what he was thinking earlier, this definitely is the game night from hell, life was a mistake. “Feuilly,” Bahorel says slowly. It sends a chill down Feuilly’s spine. A traitorous part of him wants to hear Bahorel say it again and again, a thousand different ways. “Nice to properly meet you.”

 

“How _did_ you two almost meet?” asks Combeferre, because he’s just as bad of a gossip as Courfeyrac is. Feuilly has no friends, everyone he thought he could trust has conspired against him.

 

He scowls. “At the supermarket.” He doesn’t want to clarify.  


“Feuilly stole cookies out of my hand,” elaborates Bahorel. He’s still grinning from ear to ear, like he’s getting a kick out of Feuilly’s life slowly withering away to nothing. Feuilly is about ready to organize a riot to end attractive people mocking him and looking totally and completely kissable whilst doing so.

 

It would be a short riot.

 

“Feuilly,” Enjolras reprimands, scandalized.

 

“I needed cookies! I didn’t have a snack! I couldn’t not bring a snack, that’s literally the one thing you asked me to do, what else was I supposed to do?”

 

Bahorel’s endless grin turns smug. “I offered to share them with him but he wouldn’t even give me the time of day,” he continues. Feuilly wants to punch him repeatedly—then stick his tongue down Bahorel’s throat. “Ironic, since it appears you’ll be sharing them after all.”

 

A petty part of Feuilly wants to grab the bag of cookies and not let anyone have any.

 

“Oh my god, _this_ is the guy you haven’t shut up about in over an hour?” Musichetta complains. “I’ve been listening to you gripe about this guy for literally forever and now you’re just standing here teasing him like you weren’t writing sonnets for him on the metro?”

 

Bahorel’s dark skin flushes beautifully. “ _Chetta_ ,” he hisses.

 

Feuilly decides to like her instantaneously. He grins at her, a sentiment she returns with a wink.

 

“This is like watching the world’s slowing-moving romantic comedy,” Éponine complains. People around them start to snicker, evidently not caring how both Bahorel and Feuilly splutter and blush. “Either kiss or move on with it.”

 

“Like you’ve got room to talk,” Courfeyrac teases, and the room collectively _ooh_ ’s.

 

Éponine smiles sweetly at Courfeyrac. “As if you aren’t in the same boat too, darling.”

 

Feuilly says, “Is everyone here just secretly in love with one another?”

 

“Yes,” say Grantaire and Enjolras, at the same time that everyone else says, “No.”

 

It’s easy for everyone to laugh at that, and then the party is back in full swing. Enjolras and Grantaire disappear into the kitchen—hopefully just to grab the food—while Joly drags his significant others over to the floor in front of the coffee table and plops them down so that they can begin playing card games. Courfeyrac squeezes Feuilly’s hand, kisses Combeferre’s cheek, then stands to go join them.

 

“Enjolras wasn’t wrong,” Feuilly murmurs, after a minute. “It is easy for all of us to get along.”

 

Combeferre smiles happily at him. “I do hope you’ll try to come around more,” he says, with utmost sincerity. It makes Feuilly’s heart constrict. “I understand you’re busy with work and school right now, but it is always a delight to spend time with you.”

 

Feuilly can’t do much but smile and reach for Combeferre’s hand in response.

 

He follows Combeferre into the living room, where he plays two hands of the card game and gets a proper ab workout with how hard he laughs. Bahorel steals glances at him—Feuilly pretends not to notice, but more often than not gets caught in the middle of his own lingering stares. It’s nice, to say the least, and most likely the happiest he’s felt in a while. With a group of new friends and old, laughter and food to go around, and an attractive boy paying him in attention, Feuilly supposes there isn’t much that could make this evening worse. He sips on a beer that one of his friends had pressed into his hand, and relishes in the fact that it’s not the alcohol that makes him feel so warm tonight.

 

After a while, his joints begin to groan in protest at his odd sitting position. He whines a bit as he clambers to his feet, grabs another beer from the kitchen, and decides to take a breather outside on the fire escape.

 

He’s only alone for a few minutes.

 

“I hope you don’t mind that I followed you out here,” Bahorel murmurs. Feuilly doesn’t even startle—just slides to the left a bit to make more room for his new companion. He clinks his beer bottle against Bahorel’s.

 

“I don’t think I have room to be an asshole to you anymore,” Feuilly admits. Bahorel rolls his eyes.

 

“Dude, whatever this is, it can’t be a thing if you aren’t going to be an asshole to me. I’m a sarcastic piece of shit, I need someone who can dish it back just as heavy as I throw it,” Bahorel warns. Feuilly is so _warm_.

 

“And what is this?”

 

Bahorel regards him carefully. They’re so close—the fire escape isn’t that large to begin with, but the distance between them is minimal anyway. Feuilly feels like he’s a magnet orbiting, and sooner or later they’re going to crash into one another. Bahorel’s arm brushes his slightly.

 

“I’m gonna be honest,” he says softly. Feuilly is honestly surprised that someone as looming and handsome as Bahorel has the ability to sound so gentle. “I see this going one of two ways. The first, we pretend this isn’t a thing and we become friends. We pine uselessly after one another—like every other stupid person in that room, because Jesus they’ve all been in love for so long—but neither of us do anything out of fear. Or we can admit that we can’t deny the obvious chemistry and we give us a go.”

 

Feuilly pulls a face. “You’re missing a few ways,” he mutters. He takes a long drink of his beer; when he finally drops the bottle, Bahorel is looking at him with something akin to hurt in his expression. “Other options: we fuck once, because we’re obviously attracted to each other, but then realize it could only be a one time thing and awkwardly try to remain friends. We fuck once, it turns out to be awesome, so we keep fucking but we’re only friends and it gets messy because friends-with-benefits always is. Or, you’re right, we try to give a relationship a go, and it ends miserably and we split and that amazing group of people in there gets caught up in the middle of our drama.”

 

“You’re a fucking pessimist, aren’t you?”  
  
Feuilly shrugs. “I’m not trying to be. I’m just being honest.”

 

Bahorel takes a step back. “Okay so what, what is it about me that makes it seem like I’m not boyfriend material? Why are we either fuck buddies or doomed to fail?”

 

The question honestly floors Feuilly. He has to blink and take a minute to process before he can respond. “Well—Jesus, dude, _look at you_ , then look at me. Do you think people would honestly believe we were a couple? You’re like, a twenty out of ten, and I’m a solid five maybe.”

 

“What the fuck,” Bahorel says. He looks properly affronted. “What. Oh my god, every word of that was wrong. First of all, you’re _way_ out of my league, so jot that down. Second—that’s not a real reason. Why couldn’t we work out?”

 

“Why would we?” Feuilly counters. He sighs. “Listen. I—you’re a huge asshole. And you’re hot as hell and you’re also funny as shit and yeah, I’ve been obsessing over you ever since you walked in the door and I probably can’t hide that even though I shouldn’t have admitted it. But—god, dude, you’d hate me after a few months. I work constantly. _Constantly_. I literally have four jobs. And I’m, like, the world’s biggest dickhead. I’m the worst at communication because I forget, I don’t know how to administer affection because I’m clueless, I’m an asshole because I don’t know how else to defend myself. Even if we did give this a try… Man, you’d be annoyed with me a week in.”

 

Bahorel’s frowning. He frowns with his entire face, so even his eyes look sad and confused, and the entire thing just makes Feuilly feel worse.

 

“Okay, I’m just going to stop talking now, I think I’ve sufficiently convinced you that—”

 

He’s interrupted by Bahorel surging forward and kissing him. Bahorel’s hands carefully hold Feuilly’s face, tilting him up just enough that he can capture his lips with a gentle eagerness. Feuilly gasps, and flails, but Bahorel’s mouth is so soft and pliant and it’s _amazing_ so he settles for gripping Bahorel’s jacket with his fists.

 

As first kisses go, it’s probably perfect.

 

Bahorel’s hands are careful as they hold Feuilly still, caressing. He doesn’t push, as much as Feuilly kind of wishes he would—just presses his lips to Feuilly’s pointedly. It’s chaste, and not nearly as long as Feuilly would have preferred. When he pulls away,he’s smiling a bit and his eyes are closed.

 

“I’ve been obsessing over you since the damn grocery store,” Bahorel murmurs. He’s still close enough that Feuilly can feel the words as Bahorel’s breath tickles his lips. He wants to kiss him again and again. “And I think that everything you just told me basically confirms you’re perfect.”

 

Feuilly makes a protesting sound and tries not to blush. “Oh my god, why is everyone being so weird about me tonight, I’m not—”

 

Bahorel laughs, and Feuilly’s grip tightens around his jacket in case he tries to move away. Bahorel’s fingers timidly run through Feuilly’s hair. “So, do you think you’ll share those cookies with me now?”

 

“I literally hate you,” Feuilly says. “Go on one thousand dates with me.”

 

Bahorel’s grin is brighter than every star in the night sky, and Feuilly is drunk on it. As far as awkward reunion game nights go, this one isn’t as bad as Feuilly expected it to be. It’s actually probably the best night of his life, ever.

 

Besides. He can have his revenge on his friends when he and Bahorel host a party of their own.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me [here](https://tonytangredis.tumblr.com/).
> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark below!


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